


On Preening

by TheCrazyGeek



Series: On a f*cking wing and a f*cking prayer [10]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M, Feathers & Featherplay, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 03:09:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2372345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrazyGeek/pseuds/TheCrazyGeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm's wings need cleaning, and since his PA is away he's roped Nicola into doing it for him. Of course, since she has a kink for wings and he's a horny bastard anyway......</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Preening

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written by TheMasterPlanner and The-Crazy-Geek.

*****

"How do these get so filthy, anyway? There cannot be this much dirt in the air."

"And like ye weren’t shaking concrete dust out of your fucking knickers when I had ye on the roof? London is a fucking filthy place, and I’m not a fucking dog, so stop patting my wing and just fucking brush it down."

Nicola took out the microfibre cleaning cloth and the bottle of wing oil, reading the instructions. This shouldn’t be that hard. It was like polishing silver.

"And ye have to make sure to fucking zip up the feathers too—" Malcolm gasped as she ran the cloth over the sensitive upper curve of the wing.

Nicola repeated the movement, stroking ever-so-lightly from the base of the enormous wing out toward the tip. Malcolm actually moaned, the sound throaty and incredibly sensual, and squirmed in his chair.

"Stop—fucking—fondling—!"

 

"I’m just doing what it says Malcolm!" Nicola sounded indignant, but her hands didn’t actually stop stroking along the strong muscles and bone structure. His back was to her, so she couldn’t see, but she judged from the noises that certain parts of the feared Director were responding _very_ well to her touch.

"It says ‘firm strokes.’ Firm fucking strokes, not fucking tickling!" Malcolm’s hands were clawed, gripping the back of the chair for dear life. His wings shifted and rustled, the muscles in his back flexing as he tried to calm himself down. "Fine, right, work on the flight feathers, the primaries and secondaries. Maybe yer tiny, fucking sex-obsessed brain will be able to handle that task, yes?"

"Calm down Malcolm." She smiled behind his back. "I’ll just finish brushing this wing off and then I … damn, what was it?"

Malcolm’s shoulders tensed even more. Maybe he should have left things alone until Sam got back, but going around all day with soiled wings felt about as nice as walking around in wet fucking socks.

"Just wipe them down, oil them and fucking zip them. I’ve only told ye eight million times!"

Nicola wiped down the pinions of one wing with the cloth, with a firmer touch this time, and actually jumped as a few of them fell out. She pictured Malcolm featherless, his wings looking like a larger version of the raw chicken wings she saw at the market. She’d never hear the end of it if she actually _plucked_ him.

"It’s fine. I’m molting. And fer fucks sake, don’t pull on the pin feathers." Nicola just stared at the thin blood feathers mixed in with the fully-grown plumage.

"Um, what do you want me to do with these ones then?" Nicola picked up a few of the fallen feathers and waved them by the side of his face, tickling his cheek. Malcolm swatted her hand away and huffed. "Fucked if I care, stuff them in your fuckin’ pillows, stick them in your kecks, use ‘em as tampons, whatever. Just don’t put them in the bin."

She swept the feathers into a pile with one foot. “Is that because of recycling or something?”

Malcolm’s head fell forward onto his hands. “No, it’s because trying tae explain to the cleanin’ staff why your bin is full of fucking giant feathers is a fucking great headache that I do _not_ fucking need right now!” His wing twitched out of her touch and he let out a _very_ weary sigh. “Fuck, I wish Sam were back…”

"Where _is_ Sam, anyway?” As she began to zip up the long flight feathers, Nicola thought that she couldn’t recall Malcolm’s personal assistant ever having a day off.

"Family emergency," Malcolm said, in a tone that did not invite further queries into the matter.

***

The box that Malcolm had handed to her earlier (“Sam keeps it stocked, right? Don’t fucking ask me where it all comes from.”) had sent her hands to twitching. So many cloths and brushes and bottles of various oils and lotions — there was even a cream for the skin under the feathers. She’d have been quite happy just to have sat down with this small slice of a strange world and tried to figure out what it was all for.

The most un-Malcolm-like object in the box was an extremely expensive-looking bottle with a slightly shimmering oil swirling around in it. A lingering scent hovered faintly around the stopper — a musky, earthy and somehow also airy smell. Aftershave?

"That’s—that’s for special occasions, just get the fucking cloth and the white bottle and stand over there." Malcolm stripped off his jacket, hanging it over a chair, then unbuttoned his shirt and folded it.

With a flexing movement of his back and shoulders, a pair of enormous dove-grey wings burst out of his shoulder blades in a puff of air and feathers, and he turned the chair around to sit, leaning forward against the back.

"Preening my wings is normally part of Sam’s remit, but since she’s gone, I don’t have time to go tae the preener, and you’re so fucking fascinated with feathers, you’ll do it."

Nicola blinked. She was a Member of Parliament, for God’s sake. Social Affairs and Citizenship wasn’t the most glamorous department in Whitehall, but she wasn’t a glorified hairdresser. And there were apparently professionals who did this for people like him.

But she’d get to see those lovely wings up close, touch them, run her hands over the feathers…

A sniff came from Malcolm’s direction. “It is _really_ fucking abnormal how you drench your knickers whenever I get these fuckers out.”

"Malcolm, do you want me to clean your wings or not?" Nicola had seen a glimpse of Sam doing it once. She was sure she could manage it without bollocking it up, or whatever Malcolm would say.

***

"You couldn’t find yer own arsehole with two hands, SatNav, and a fucking torch!"

Well, it wasn’t _her_ fault that Malcolm was moaning and shifting in his chair after her every touch of his oversensitive wings, was it?

As if to prove the point, Nicola indulged herself by making great wide sweeps of her fingers up along his wing bones, supposedly sweeping off large particles of dust and a few squashed flies that Malcolm had flown into.  He shifted in his chair slightly and leaned back against her hands for a fraction of a minute, exhaling smoothly.

Nicola took her hands off his wing. “Should I stop?”

Malcolm beat his wings for a moment, shaking off some more dust and loose feathers. “No, ye fucking daft bint, don’t stop.”

At every stroke, every soft brush of his feathers, Malcolm moaned in pleasure and arched his back into her touch, letting out ragged breaths. Nicola found she was getting increasingly aroused herself, and was pleasantly surprised to hear throaty growls from him instead of the usual insults.

The preening oil smelled sweet, almost decadently so, and spreading it over and into those silken feathers was an incredibly sensual experience that she found she enjoyed just as much as Malcolm did. She began to massage the sore muscles around his wings, in the center of his back and around his shoulders, and then her hands moved to the base of his wings, where a layer of soft silver down marked the place where they adjoined his shoulders — the sweet spot she knew was incredibly sensitive. Malcolm gasped at her worshipful caresses, his eyes tightly closed, his wings fluttering.

After a few minutes of this, he abruptly pushed the chair away and stood up to face her, panting in need.

"Now look what you’ve done," he said, gesturing at the unbelievably hard erection visible beneath his trousers. He started to unbutton his fly to free it from the bunching fabric. "I can’t be seen walking around like this. Fucking take care of it."

She blinked. That wasn’t part of the agreement at all.

"Malcolm, for fuck’s sake, I was just cleaning—"

"— I know _exactly_ what the fuck you were doing. I _always_ know exactly what the fuck you are doing. Ye were feelin’ me up like a pervert with a greased fleshlight, so dinnae fucking pretend ye didn’t know what would happen.” He was standing there, hands poised over the fastenings on his trousers, looking straight at her out of pupils blown wide with desire. “The door’s fuckin’ locked — and don’t think I didn’t see ye do _that_ — and isn’t this what ye’ve been after?”

The fucking bastard was right, but Nicola was getting a bit unsettled at how everything revolved around _his_ bloody sex drive and _his_ needs. Never anyone else’s, just his. “Look yes, I knew what it was doing and all, but this is rather sudden and for the record I—”

“ _Nicola_.” One word, spoken without a single trace of anger or frustration or indeed any of the usual _Malcolm_ -ness, stopped her dead.

Nicola loved those magnificent wings so much that she sometimes quite forgot how attractive the rest of him was. Malcolm was lithe, lean, all sleek and sinewy muscle over seemingly delicate, bird-fine bones. His folded wings framed his gorgeous long legs and accentuated the width of his shoulders. His face was all angles and flat planes and harsh lines — thin, well-cut lips under an aquiline nose, high sharp cheekbones — all coalescing to give him a cruel and sinister beauty, like that of a terrible bird of prey.

And oh God, this beautiful man wanted her — he was looking at her with such need, his grey eyes almost pleading —

No, no, she was married, she had children, this could cause a scandal, ruin any chance of a career in politics outside this fucking hellhole of a department —

He was temptation incarnate, she should have never agreed to do this, she wanted him, she needed him, she needed those wings, that body, above her like her lungs needed air…

Nicola wondered how she could be so turned on by a man she absolutely detested. She’d seen him end careers with a phone call; she’d seen him blackmail, manipulate, and intimidate; she’d seen him tear the flesh off a pigeon with his teeth and eat it raw.

It’s always rather unsettling when one’s body tells one’s brain to go fuck itself, but that is exactly what happened to Nicola every bloody time Malcolm got his wings out. Her desire for him was primal, a deep-seated need that came from her brain stem and had nothing at all to do with the higher functions — the ones that kept her married and in a job. She couldn’t quite put a name to how Malcolm made her feel at times like these — it was want and obsession and envy and passion and lust, all packed tightly together.

One last-ditch attempt at control: “Malcolm, I’m married, the press — “

"Are. Not. Here." He wasn’t stepping any closer; he was letting her take the final step if she wanted to jump into the abyss with him. He’d not force her — he hadn’t the first time they’d had sex, and he never would. He’d scream, fight, swear, insult her, destroy her career, but at some level she knew that he’d never force himself on someone. Even the Dark Lord of Downing Street had a line he wouldn’t cross.

Nicola stepped closer, reaching out with a shaking hand to stroke a wing. Yes. He was right. This _was_ what she had been after, all this time.

Malcolm responded by shaking out his wings, creating a small storm of fluffy down and loose feathers that fluttered to the office floor.

***

Her hands were soft, warm and very welcome as they stroked over his wings yet again. He could feel goosebumps rising on the flesh of his wings, where each quill met the delicate skin. Winged could crave the touch of another being as much as any other social animal, and Malcolm was no exception. He was turned on now, extraordinarily so, his eyes heavy-lidded and his breathing low and fast, and he leaned slightly into Nicola’s touch as his arms came up to grasp her waist and pull her toward him. A loose feather fluttered down and landed on her shoulder and he leaned in to blow it off of her.

The feel of his breath on her neck caused a shiver down Nicola’s spine. She reached upward, stroking along the bony ridge at the top of his wings before moving down toward his body, down his shoulders and across his chest, feeling the hard muscle underneath his burning hot skin. His abortive attempt to get his trousers off earlier had left them half-fastened and practically hanging off his bony hips and his hands stilled on the buttons for a minute.

"Stop fucking faffing about." Malcolm’s frustrated tones caused her to look up at his face. "What the fuck are ye waiting for? A fucking signed invitation? Get them off."

This wasn’t quite the way she’d envisioned this in her fantasies. “I just —”

"What?"

She felt ridiculous saying this. “Most people do a bit of kissing before they start getting clothes off, Malcolm.”

"Unlike _you_ , I have an actual fucking job to get back to. You want this? Then we’re fucking doing it _my_ way.” Malcolm had evidently given up on waiting for Nicola, and jerked his trousers down, past arching hipbones and the curve of a tight arse, before pushing her up against the wall of the office.

His lean frame was pressed up against her so hard she’d swear he was trying to push her through the wall. There was also no question about how worked up she’d gotten him — his erection was pushing out his pants and he was rocking slightly back and forth against her, gently rubbing himself against her hips.

Malcolm’s earlier sedate mood at having his wings groomed was entirely gone, replaced by a growling, wild rutting behavior concerned only with his sexual satisfaction. And fuck if that wasn’t one of the most erotic things Nicola had ever seen.

Malcolm sniffed. “God, ye’re like the fucking Thames right now, aren’t ye?” He slid a hand up one of her legs, hooking her thigh up to his waist before using the same hand to roughly stroke between her legs, snorting with satisfaction as he felt her soaked knickers against his palm.

Nicola could only moan and gasp for breath in response, writhing underneath him. Those immense wings of his had reared up over them like a feathered canopy, spreading wide enough to span the office, every feather shining as if cut from metal.

"Use yer words, Nic’la," he growled, the familiar predatory smile on his face. He was holding her up by the legs like she weighed nothing, absolutely nothing, taking a cruel pleasure in his power over her. "Tell me what ye fucking want."

Instead she slid her palms up and down the hot skin of his sleekly muscled back, and when her fingers once again reached the juncture where the great silvery wings met his shoulder blades, it was his turn to shudder and collapse into incoherence. How many times had she touched herself to thoughts of Malcolm above her, around her, inside her, those flawless grey wings spread over her, his lithely muscled body solid and seductive under her hands, his deadly grace and wicked mouth…

"God, I want you! I want you, you bloody bastard!" She lunged forward, locking her lips to his.

"I’m going tae put this in the memoirs, ye know," he growled when he finally broke the kiss to come up for air. "How I shagged the leader of the Labour Party up against the wall of the fucking Number 10 press office."

“I’m not the leader, Malcolm.”

“Yet.” His mouth met hers again and all talk was over.

***

He could have shown Nicola the correct way to preen him that didn’t involve getting him harder than Latin algebra, all professional preeners knew that, even Sam knew it; but something inside him had decided it would be more interesting to watch her try to do it without instruction. He usually found Murray about as irritating as a dose of thrush, and more persistent; but her every touch, each gentle caress, sent almost electric shivers of arousal through his entire body, as if the hair-trigger nerves in his wings were wired directly to his cock. Her hands all over his wings for the last half hour or so had been a blissful, exquisite torment, made more enjoyable when she hadn’t initially known the effect she was having on him. It did’nae help that she produced a metric fuckton of arousal-response pheromones every fucking time she saw the things. Daft woman should be grateful it was him and not Jamie she’d been preening. Jamie would have had her bent over the nearest desk, knickers ripped off, five minutes in. Lad had no self-control.

Her hands were still on his wings right now, stroking his feathers in an imitation of her earlier ministrations, but this was so much more erotic now that they both knew sex was going to happen. He devoured her, tore at her clothes, her skin, pulled her hair and muffled her cries by crushing his mouth down upon hers, over and over. Nicola’s legs were locked around his waist and he tore her knickers off with one swipe of his hand and instantly pressed his palm flat against her hot, wet core. “God,” he muttered and moved his hand back and forth slowly, the pad of his thumb brushing her clit, “ye’re such a fucking feather-slut, aren’t ye?”

Nicola could only moan softly in response, bolts of arousal shooting through her at his every touch.

“One shake of a wing and I can practically fucking _hear_ you get wet. Runs down your fucking legs, doesn’t it?” He slipped a couple of fingers quickly into her and out again just as fast, ignoring her pleading whine when he moved his hand away entirely. He could have his pants off and be inside her in a split second in this position, and he exhaled hard when his cock twitched in appreciation of that idea.

“Down,” he ordered. He stepped back from the wall, letting her fall to her feet. “I need something first.” He strode over to his desk and retrieved his suit jacket, opening up a small inside pocket and removing a foil packet. “I’m no’ having any more fucking kids with your brainless DNA runnin’ around.” In one swift, well-practiced movement, the condom was on.

In the space of a pounding heartbeat, he’d leapt across the office and took hold of Nicola’s hips, his nails digging into her skin hard enough to make her cry out. He held her in a steel grip, moving her slowly backward until she felt the wall behind her again. They stood like that for what seemed like an eternity, Nicola pinned between the wall and Malcolm, her hands trapped against his hard chest and damp with sweat and the oils from Malcolm’s feathers. Her fingers spread and drifted slowly down over his skin and every plane of his whipcord-lean torso and thighs, and there was no mistaking his very prominent erection, grinding harder against her as he bit into her neck and shoulder with sharp teeth. His flawless wings moved in time with his every heavy breath, spread wide and blocking her view of everything else. Everything else but him.

_How is it you’re spreading your legs for someone who does nothing but bloody insult you?_ The rational part of her mind tried to get her attention — the part that dealt with things like what time to pick the children up from the nanny and what she needed to get for dinner. There was nothing rational about her need for him. Nicola closed her eyes against such unwelcome thoughts and hooked a leg back up around his waist, guiding his erection to where she wanted him, giving her consent.

Malcolm grabbed her thighs to hoist her up for a better angle and pushed into her with no finesse or warning. Her hands dug into his shoulders for balance as he pressed his face into her neck and started thrusting hard and fast. “Ye’re fuckin’ addicted tae me —” His husky voice was strained as though he had to remember how to talk. “— aren’t ye?”

Her body was pushed back repeatedly against the wall by the force of Malcolm’s thrusts. Nicola just nodded and carded her hands back through the layered grey feathers right in front of her eyes. She could spend an eternity with those beautiful wings wrapped around her, satin-smooth and shimmering and so, so powerful —

Her lust for him clawed at her, a terrible insatiable hunger that tore at her soul, and she held on to him for dear life, her nails digging into his smooth skin. The intensity of her grip must have been almost painful, but he didn’t flinch. She wrapped her legs around his waist and started to thrust her hips forward, taking him even harder and deeper into her, and he snarled and bit her shoulder in response.

She closed her eyes, drowning in sensation: the whisper of his breath on her neck, the powdery scent of sensuously soft feathers, the flex of taut muscle under hot skin, the swift inexorable movement of his body above hers, the delicious friction inside that built up and up and up and oh god she was coming —

***

Malcolm groaned as he felt her suddenly come around him, her muscles spasming and tightening around his cock, her body arching against him, her cries muffled against his shoulder as her fingers dug into his back. With a growl, he leaned in and bit, where her neck met the shoulder. The whole bloody preening session had been fucking foreplay, he’d been building up for this the whole time…

With a snap of air, his wings extended to their full stretch — dominant, possessive, imposing — and his teeth clamped tighter on soft skin as he let himself finally — _blessedly —_ come.

***

After Nicola had finally finished her usual fucking post-sex waffling and simpering and fucked off, Malcolm sighed as he took a look at his wings. “I’ll need to be fucking preened again…” He flicked a tattered feather away with his fingers and frowned at the state of them. Sam had better get back soon.


End file.
